


Hearth & Home (We Could Be Immortals)

by sinivalkoista



Series: Matt & Nat [2]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bad Cooking, Blind Character, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt Matt, Hurt Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Injury, Lawyers, Marriage, Missions Gone Wrong, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Not Canon Compliant, POV Matt Murdock, POV Natasha Romanov, Protective Natasha Romanov, Sad, Secret Identity, Secret Marriage, Secret Relationship, Senses, Television Watching, Undercover Missions, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28634190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinivalkoista/pseuds/sinivalkoista
Summary: OR Matt and Nat's House RulesORWith a small click, Matt unlocks the door to his apartment and holds it open for Natasha.“Aren’t you supposed to carry me across the threshold?” she asks dryly.“I can if you want me to,” Matt offers.“I’ll pass.”
Relationships: Franklin "Foggy" Nelson/Karen Page, Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson & Karen Page, Matt Murdock & Natasha Romanov, Matt Murdock/Natasha Romanov
Series: Matt & Nat [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2098407
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	Hearth & Home (We Could Be Immortals)

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: I haven't seen any of the MCU movies or TV shows and completely ignored what little timeline I learned from reading other fanfiction

With a small  _ click,  _ Matt unlocks the door to his apartment and holds it open for Natasha.

“Aren’t you supposed to carry me across the threshold?” she asks dryly.

“I can if you want me to,” Matt offers.

“I’ll pass.” Natasha has never been one for traditions, bad luck or none. She slides her light coat off and hangs it on one of the hooks by the front door.

Matt discards his cane and makes his way over to the fridge to pull out a beer. He offers one to her, and crossing over to the kitchen counter, she accepts it. Matt pops the top of his and, without looking, tosses it into the trash can.

It’s part of their game, showing off, seeing which one can outdo the other. Knowing he’ll track the projectile, Natasha does the same thing, ricocheting it off his toaster.

“Nice,” he acknowledges.

“Thank you.” She allows a smidgen of smugness into her voice. “Pancakes?”

“Pancakes,” he confirms.

…

“Come  _ on,  _ Matt,” Foggy argues. “Karen has this friend, and-”

“No, Foggy,” Matt interrupts, slightly annoyed. It’s the third time today that Foggy has tried to set Matt up with someone, and while he appreciates the effort, there’s one small snag in his wingman’s plan.

Matt is married.

Not aware of this fact, Foggy’s attempts have been increasing to an impressive level that would have otherwise been appreciated. 

“Why  _ not?”  _ Foggy complains. “You’ve been a hermit for the past - how many months, Karen?”

“Three,” she supplies from the other room. Matt can hear the amusement coloring her voice. 

“Three,” Foggy repeats. “Three months. You can’t date your job, Matt. If you keep up the way you’ve been going, buddy, we’re going to come into the office one morning and find your skeleton in your chair like that jarl dude on Skyrim.”

“I didn’t know you played video games,” Matt remarks, running his finger tips over the case briefing lying in front of him. All morning, a headache has been crescending to a steady, low throb that makes it hard to concentrate on anything or anyone. 

“Quit trying to get me off your scent,” Foggy warns. “This friend of Karen’s-”

“Foggy, I appreciate your effort, but please stop trying to set me up with people.” After removing his glasses, he pinches the bridge of his nose, wishing the sounds from the street and the offices above and below them would just  _ stop  _ for a moment so he could think a little bit more clearly. Foggy really isn’t helping. 

There’s a rush of air as Foggy throws his hands up. “Why not?”

“Because,” Matt grits out through his teeth before he can stop himself, “I don’t think my wife would  _ appreciate _ it.”

The office falls silent.

From the other room, Matt hears Karen’s heavy breathing and the rapid pace of her and Foggy’s hearts before-

“ _ What?”  _ Foggy exclaims, his voice rising. “You’re  _ married?”  _

Footsteps patter, and Karen enters the room. “What in the world, Matt?” she hisses. “You’re married?”

Natasha is going to  _ kill  _ him for letting it slip.

“I-” He fumbles for the right words. “It just happened-”

“What kind of a  _ jerk  _ gets married and doesn’t tell - let alone  _ invite  _ \- his best friend to the wedding?” 

“There wasn’t a wedding,” Matt says, “and I didn’t tell you because she didn’t want me to.”

“Why not?” Karen asks, sounding confused and hurt at the same time.

“Yeah, why not?” Foggy echoes, his blood still pumping angrily. “What’s wrong with telling us?”

“Her job,” Matt says. “It’s highly sensitive. She asked me to keep it a secret for safety reasons.”

Karen’s heartbeat is calming, but Foggy’s is still upset, thudding against his chest loudly like a drum. “That’s - that’s some relationship,” he says, beginning to pace. “First Daredevil and now  _ this.  _ What other secrets are you hiding Matt?”

“None. I’m sorry, Foggy. Karen.” 

“Do we get to meet her?” Karen asks.

“No. I’m sorry.” Matt means it. He wishes Natasha could meet Foggy and Karen because they’re the second and third most important people next to her. But Matt knows you can’t mix oil and water.

“Well, that’s fine,” Foggy snaps, storming from the room. 

“I’m sorry,” Matt echoes, pressing the pads of his thumbs into his forehead.

“I’m not exactly happy that you didn’t tell us, but I can see why,” Karen says carefully. “Foggy will come around.”

Matt hopes so - because Natasha is still going to butcher him, and there isn’t going to be much left of Matthew Murdock afterwards.

…

Soon after the wedding ceremony (although Natasha hates the formal term for the simple arrangement), she half-moves into Matt’s apartment. While he can never stay there for too long (too many trails, too many risks), she can return any time she likes, and Matt will be there waiting for her unless he’s out patrolling as Daredevil. 

It’s weird, having somewhere to call home, but Natasha likes it. 

…

**Rule #1: Matt Does All of the Cooking (Really)**

Natasha doesn’t cook. From her training and years of living alone, she  _ does  _ know the basics, of course, but it really isn’t her thing. That’s fine, because Matt has the sharpest nose between the two of them and seems to have a sixth sense for knowing the exact amount of spices and the precise time something needs to spend over the heat. She doesn’t tell him when she’ll stop by, but he usually makes enough for two. If she doesn’t show up, they end up as leftovers for him, so there’s no pressure on her to make an appearance.

This time, however, Matt isn’t at home whenever she climbs in through the window (just because they’re married doesn’t mean Natasha wants to advertise her presence to the neighbors). She’s angry at Clint. During their last mission-

No, she isn’t going to think about Clint right now. She is going to do something calming. Normally, she would head to the nearest shooting range and slam a few rounds into the targets, but she doesn’t feel like going over there tonight. It’s one in the morning, and she’d be less memorable if she took her target practice when it was more crowded instead of mostly deserted.

Now that her adrenaline from the mission is wearing off, Natasha feels exhaustion along with hunger creeping into her joints and bones.

She rifles through Matt’s kitchen cabinets until she finds his deepest cast-iron pan. 

It connects with his stovetop more harshly than she intends, and she winces. She doesn’t really have the patience for slow cooking, so she turns the heat up as high as possible and moves to go through the rest of Matt’s cabinets to find the olive oil and the fridge to locate other items. 

When she pours a liberal amount of olive oil into the pan, it sizzles and snaps, and Natasha lets it fizzle as she takes an onion and begins the process of peeling and cutting it.

It’s funny how she’s a highly skilled spy, but a vegetable can bring her to “tears.” Natasha doesn’t cry that easily. 

The  _ thudding  _ of Matt’s cleaver into the cutting board is soothing. As the onion is reduced to smaller and smaller pieces, Natasha feels a little calmer, and once she’s satisfied with the mincing, she scrapes the onion bits off the cutting board into the sizzling oil and moves on to the other things she pulled out of Matt’s fridge.

During some down time, Steve taught her a recipe his mother used to make when nothing else was available. It was extremely flexible, but Natasha remembered the distinct homely taste of the hodgepodge.

After she scrapes some carrots into the pan, her phone rings.

Frowning, she checks the caller ID.

Clint.

At that moment, Natasha would rather have a heart-to-heart with Dr. Strange than speak with Clint, so she sends him to voicemail and attacks the celery with renewed vigor.

Her phone rings again.

She puts it on silent.

It buzzes in her pocket.

Clint is just going to keep harassing her. Angrily, she drops the knife and swipes  _ answer,  _ turning away from the stovetop and the cutting board _.  _ “What do you want, Clint? I don’t want to talk to you right now.” Which should be obvious.

“ _ Listen, Natasha-” _

“Stop talking. Do not call me.”

_ “I’m sorry, Nat.”  _

Well, an apology. “Fine,” she tells him. “Now get lost, Clint.” Before he answers, she hangs up and turns back to the stew.

A faint cloud of smoke is hanging in the air.

Something is burning.

She swears.

As Natasha attempts to find a lid to clamp down the top of the pot while turning the burner off at the same time, the front door to the apartment opens. Without turning around, she knows it’s Matt, home from a late night at the office instead of Daredevil-ing (or she assumes, for the moment).

She locates the lid.

As an ear-splitting fire alarm goes off, she drops it on top of the cast-iron pan, smothering the arising flame.

One ear plugged, Matt fumbles around until he finds the right button to shut off the fire alarm.

“Nat,” he greets her pleasantly, crossing over to kiss her on the cheek (which she allows even though she feels like shooting something). Experimentally, he takes a sniff of the air. “I thought we agreed I’d do the cooking?”

**Rule #2: No Hiding Injuries**

They’re taking down a gang in the purest, most stereotyped sense of the word - big guns, tattoos, gold chains, and mouths that would make Captain America die of a heart attack.

As soon as Matt takes one of them out, a cry of “ _ Daredevil!”  _ goes up.

Natasha’s surprised that she hasn’t been given a name yet. Whenever she’s in Hell’s Kitchen and not otherwise on duty, she joins Matt on his patrols, and it would be foolish to assume she hasn’t been seen or associated with him yet.

Despite the guns, it should be a quick in-and-out. 

Natasha’s already in the thick of things, having disarmed (and knocked out) two of the goons when she hears a grunt of pain. 

Natasha ducks until the punch of a third, elbows him in the gut, and then drops him to the floor. HIs breath leaves him in an  _ oof  _ that guarantees he’s going to think twice about getting up.

Because she’s feeling nice tonight, she finishes the job and knocks him out.

Matt is losing.

As a basic rule, Matt doesn’t lose, but his movements are slower, less controlled, and his breathing is more labored tonight. Something is definitely wrong.

Matt narrowly manages to escape a punch to the stomach by ricocheting his billy club off the nearest wall and into the back of one of his assailant’s heads while Natasha crosses the distance to help him.

It’s only when the job is complete and they’re on the rooftops again that Natasha rounds on him. 

“Where?”

Matt cocks his head to the side. “Tenth and thirteenth street. Shots fired.”

As a lawyer, Matt is also a master of misdirection, but Natasha is too smart for him to be able to slip it past her. “Where are you  _ injured?”  _ she clarifies.

Matt’s cheek twitches as though he’s tempted to lie to her, but he eventually responds, “Shoulder.”

“How?”

“Sprain,” Matt admits.

Natasha frowns. “What made you think this was a good idea tonight?”

“I thought-”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “New rule, Matt. You don’t try to hide injuries from me. I will always find out.”

Natasha doesn’t need to look at Matt to see the half-irritated, half-apologetic, half-embarrassed look on his face.

**Rule #3: Always, Always, Always Leave the Window Unlocked**

“Fine. I won’t,” Matt promises, experimentally rotating his shoulder and wincing again.

“We’re going home.” Natasha doesn’t leave any room for argument. She knows Matt would jump in at the next chance to help someone, and while his generous nature is slightly endearing, it also annoys Natasha to no end. She was raised to put herself first.

“Fine,” Matt agrees again even though it sounds like the word kills him.

Without any detours, they return to Matt’s apartment building. It’s a cool night, and the sounds of the city blare more than usual. As they work their way down the fire escape, Natasha takes in a deep breath of the evening air.

At his window, Matt pauses.

“What’s wrong?” Natasha asks.

“The window,” Matt says, patting it with his uninjured hand. “It’s locked.”

“Locked?” Natasha frowns. Both of them had left through that same window, so someone else must have been in the apartment after them. “Is anyone inside?”

Matt tilts his head to the side. “No.” A pause. “I might have knocked the clasp into place when I shut it.”

He and Natasha had been eager to get out for the evening and burn some adrenaline.

“I see.”

Matt tenses. “Someone’s coming. Neighbor. Taking out the trash?”

Natasha swears. “Back on the roof.”

Even Natasha can hear the tenant loudly dropping the trash can (no doubt mostly filled with beer cans) into the dumpster.

Matt’s massaging his shoulder, so it must be hurting him more than he’s willing to let on. At the moment, Natasha isn’t carrying any of her lockpicking devices, and she doesn’t fancy ascending and descending the fire escape multiple times if anyone else is going to empty their trash at two in the morning.

“Front door?” she poses.

She doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s raising his eyebrows. “In this?”

The Daredevil outfit is a little gauche, but for all his super senses, Matt is still blind. “I’ll get it,” she offers. “I’m a little more…”

Matt’s lips twitch into a slight smile. “Inconspicuous?”

“Yes.”

It takes her ten minutes to get into Matt’s apartment and unlock the window. By that time, Matt is waiting on the fire escape outside again.

“New rule,” Natasha says as she helps Matt in through the window. For a moment, she breathes in his scent before turning to retrieve Matt’s emergency medical kit.

“Yes?” Matt asks, settling on the couch.

“Make sure the window is unlocked next time, yeah?”

**Rule #4: Keep the Television Volume on Low (Matt Has Sensitive Ears)**

Natasha’s used to watching television with Clint, so she keeps the volume up. Normally, Clint insists on an even number divisible by both five and ten, but he isn’t there. Rebelliously, Nat settles on 73. 

After Matt learns that she sometimes likes to watch television, he wordlessly buys a set.

(Unbeknownst to her, he receives endless ribbing from Foggy about this - “What, so you won’t buy a TV for when I come over, but you get married and rush to Walmart to get one as soon as possible? I feel insulted!”)

It’s soothing, somehow, watching the scene change on the screen as the billboard outside Matt’s window flickers across it. The dull noises coming from the speakers relax Natasha. They remind her of the atmosphere of a bar.

Matt’s sitting close to her on the couch. If he leaned over, their shoulders would bump, and it’s one of the most relaxed positions she’s ever seen him in. 

His face, however, is pinched. Someone else might not notice it, but Natasha’s trained to recognize tiny facial cues. 

Natasha does a quick scan of the room to see what might be bothering him.

“ _ Come on!”  _ someone on the program screams as a bomb goes off.  _ “We have to-”  _

The rest of his words don’t really matter to Natasha. Matt’s wincing and turning his head slightly to the side.

Ah. The volume.

Lazily, Natasha snags the remote off the coffee table which she is propping her feet up on and lowers the volume to thirteen.

Matt relaxes. “Thanks.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “You can tell me it is too loud, you know.”

He looks sheepish.

Their new rule goes unspoken: The television volume stays on low.

**Rule #5: Inform Natasha When Your Friends Are Coming Over**

The doorbell rings, and Matt freezes.

“Who?” Natasha is already on her feet.

“Foggy and Karen.”

“I didn’t know they were coming.”

“I forgot, I’m sorry. There’s a case file we have to review, and-” He breaks off as the doorbell goes off again.

“ _ Matt, we know you’re in there,”  _ Foggy calls through the door. “ _ Don’t think you can get out of this because of your... _ you know... _ nighttime activities _ .” 

Foggy irritates Natasha. For a lawyer, he’s too liberal with his words, too loud, not secretive enough. Natasha would like to put some fear into him, but Matt insists that they not cross paths even though there’s no way Foggy would recognize Natasha as the Black Widow whenever she’s in one of her disguises.

Matt reaches for his glasses, which he abandoned on the kitchen island earlier. Although he leaves them off for Natasha and Foggy, he isn’t as open with Karen although she seems to have more sense than Foggy in Natasha’s mind.

Since Matt will hear, Natasha doesn’t tell him where she’s going when she slips into the bedroom. As loud as racoons rifling through garbage cans, Foggy and Karen enter the apartment. 

Another thing Natasha doesn’t like about Foggy - while Natasha doesn’t mind relaxing with a bottle of beer or finer wine on occasions, Foggy is a little too quick to get himself inebriated, and when he’s drunk, he’s even louder. Natasha’s content to sit on Matt’s floor and meditate as she listens to them comb through each aspect of the case until they’re positive their argument is flawless before a jury.

After an hour and a half, Foggy declares that they have done their duty to justice and that it’s time to let loose.

To herself, Natasha snorts and moves to pushups.

On her sixth set, the sounds from the living room grow loud.

Matt doesn’t like getting drunk or (as Foggy likes to put it) the “spins.” Once, he told Natasha that he would rather catch the flu than lose control of his senses, so Natasha would bet that the raucous noises coming from the living room are from Foggy and Karen.

Karen lets out a shrill laugh that grates on Natasha’s nerves.

“ _ I see you’ve been redecorating,”  _ she remarks. 

“ _ Is that a painting I see on the wall?”  _ Foggy gasps.

“ _ I wouldn’t know,”  _ Matt says. 

Natasha isn’t one for interior decoration, so Foggy must be either referencing the television or be far drunker than Natasha estimated from the amount of time that’s passed. Or both.

_ “Wait.”  _ Karen’s laughing.  _ “Has she redecorated your bedroom?”  _

Foggy finds this hilarious.  _ “Has she, Matt? Wait, I bet she’s one of those girls that likes pastel comforters and those lacy pillows you find at Bed, Bath, & Beyond. You hate those things.”  _

“ _ I’ve never been to Bed, Bath, & Beyond,”  _ Matt informs him seriously.  _ “It’s too fragrant.”  _

_ “I want to see what she’s done,”  _ Karen declares. There are a few clanking noises followed by a thud.

_ “No, Karen, Foggy, that is not a good idea.”  _

_ “Why  _ not,  _ Matt?”  _

_ “Because…”  _ Another pause. 

Footsteps.

Clearly, Matt hasn’t won out against his slightly drunk friends. Natasha abandons her pushups to hide in the closet. Although Matt really isn’t a fashion person, he does own a fair amount of clothes because he doesn’t like making many trips to the laundromat. Matt’s wardrobe is also incredibly soft. As she steps back into the closet and slides the door shut, Natasha barely feels the clothes pressing against her.

_ “Oh.”  _ Karen’s voice.  _ “She hasn’t done anything.”  _

“ _ I told you that,”  _ Matt answers, annoyed. 

Natasha snorts and then turns her head slightly to the side to catch a whiff of Matt’s favorite suit.

_ “Where is she, anyway?”  _ Foggy asks as he pokes around the room.

_ “Work,”  _ is Matt’s short supply.  _ “I think we’ve had a little too much to drink. How about-” _

More sounds as Matt pushes them from the room, mingled with Karen’s and Foggy’s protests.

In ten minutes, they’re gone, and Natasha slips out of the closet to rejoin Matt in the living room. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes, dropping his glasses on the counter and pinching the bridge of his nose.

There are a few beer bottles scattered on the table among printed and braille sheets.

“It’s all right.” Natasha touches his arm. “Don’t forget. Next time.”

“I won’t,” Matt promises, and Natasha gives him a light kiss on the cheek.

**Rule #6: Let Matt Know You’re Alive**

Often, Natasha disappears for months on end for SHIELD’s missions. Before leaving, she lets Matt know when, where, and for how long she will be gone, and he tells her he’ll have a cup of coffee waiting for her when she returns.

At the moment, Natasha could kill for a cup of coffee. Anything to shake the weariness and aches from her bones.

After checking her cell phone for a fourth time and finding no signal, she swears. She and Clint and sitting at a bus stop in the middle of nowhere, scorched and singed from a mission gone wrong, and until they can establish contact with someone, the rest of the world likely thinks their dead after  _ that  _ explosion.

“What’s the rush?” Clint asks. “Have a ‘hot date’ for tonight?”

“Something like that,” Natasha snarks harshly, glaring at the cracks on her screen.

“I hate to inform you, but you’re probably going to have to cancel on him.”

The nearest cellphone tower is hundreds of miles away, and the communication equipment SHIELD gave them has been buried under tons of concrete and metal.

“Relax,” Clint drawls as he sprawls himself on the bench that looks like it was constructed in the seventies and then forgotten about. “This is better than paid time off.”

Natasha huffs.

Matt should be prepared for this sort of thing - both of their jobs (secret and non-secretive) are wild. On more than one occasion, she’s warned him of what might go wrong, but it  _ angers _ her that she is unable to contact him. 

Clint straightens up. “What’s the big hurry?”

“None of your business,” Natasha informs him crisply, checking her phone again. Still no signal.

As a gust of wind beats against the road, throwing dust into the air, and Clint complains about the grit in his eyes, Natasha resigns herself to waiting.

…

“Nat, you’re all right,” Matt breathes, the barest hint of tears showing in the corners of his eyes.

“Of course I am.” Natasha isn’t afraid of her own mortality, and sometimes it makes her uncomfortable to know how it affects others. Especially Matt.

“Right.” He ducks his head.

Natasha steps forward and wraps her arms around him. “I’m alive.”

“I can hear that.” 

Natasha imagines what it would be like to be him, listening to the thud of her heart in her rib cages.

“I let you know as soon as possible.”

“I know,” Matt says, his voice muffled against her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know you can take care of yourself. I just...wish there was a way I could know sooner next time.” He’s half-serious.

Natasha increases her hold.

...

Later, they’re sitting on the couch together. Although Natasha doesn’t usually like having her personal space invaded, sitting next to Matt is nice. Comfortable. Cozy. She can relax because there’s no chance of something bad happening when Matt can hear a pen being dropped two apartments below.

“I love you, Nat,” he whispers into her hair.

Turning towards him more, she hums in the back of her throat. Until the urge to roam hits her again, she feels as though she could sit in that same spot forever. Just the two of them. Natasha doesn’t believe in ancient mythology, but maybe if they were still enough, they could beat the Reaper himself. The two of them, escaping time and fighting against the world.

“We could be immortals,” she tells Matt sleepily. 

Softly, he laughs.

**Rule #7: No Tears**

Natasha brushes her hair, applies makeup, and pulls on the nicest black clothes she owns. Onto her fourth finger, she slips a silver ring.

Then, she exits the apartment to attend her husband’s funeral.

It’s as selfish of her to show up at his funeral as it was for her to marry him, but she knows that it will always nag the back of her mind if she doesn’t go. 

It’s foggy; too cliche to rain, but too sour to give anyone sunshine. It seems appropriate.

Instead of taking a taxi, she walks.

It’s funny. She always thought she would be the first one to go and even prepared a file should that happen. She never considered that Matt would be the first one to be buried six feet under.

(The euphemism is a bad one - they never found Matt’s body.)

Nat feels angry. Once she heard the entire story, she  _ knew  _ that Matt had no intention of leaving that building.

He left  _ her.  _

Natasha assumed through everything, Matt would take care of himself, so the thought that Matt would  _ give up  _ to “help” others never crossed her mind. 

But for all of her rage, she can’t pass up this chance to say goodbye, even if it is at a church. (Natasha feels that it would be rude for her to set foot  _ in  _ a church with all of the blood on her hands.)

A group is gathered. Although Matt liked to keep to himself, he was well-known in Hell’s Kitchen, but Natasha recognizes only a few.

Like Foggy and Karen.

By the end of the short ceremony, which Natasha endures like a statue, only-half hearing the words of exultation heaped upon the dead man, Foggy and Karen are crying and sniffling, clinging to each other as though they’re going to drown. Natasha is forced to go past them and offer her condolences, else risk looking strange for abandoning the funeral.

“I am sorry for your loss,” she tells them mechanically.

Through the grief on his face, Foggy is frowning at her as though he is trying to puzzle out a riddle. “Aren’t you... _ holy-” _

“Natasha.” 

“The Black Widow?” Although Foggy is openly staring at her, Karen is too befuddled by grief to be amazed by her presence. “What are you doing here?”

Natasha’s already lost all she has to lose. Instead of speaking, she holds up her hand, revealing the silver band on her fourth finger etched with the initials  _ M.M. & N.R.  _

Karen gasps. “You’re-”

“No wonder he wouldn’t tell us who you were.” Foggy clenches his fist. “Matt and his secrets.”

“I asked him not to.”

“He told us,” Karen murmurs, looking down at the ground.

Natasha nods. Before the silence can turn awkward, she says, “I am leaving. I came to say goodbye.”

Karen nods, swallowing. They leave her be.

Natasha turns and takes three steps to stand over the freshly covered grave. The headstone reads  _ Matthew Murdock  _ and other information that Natasha doesn’t really care about now. Although no body is resting under six feet of dirt, Natasha feels foreign emotions welling up. The next breath she sucks in rattles through her lungs.

A solitary tear leaks out of her eye and smatters into the dirt at the tip of her boots. It’s lost in the dry earth.

Matt wouldn’t want her to cry over him. He knew Natasha’s strong, made of iron, cold, heartless.

Heartless to  _ most _ .

When she leaves, she’s not really sure where she’s going. Normally, she would head over to Matt’s place, but she doesn’t want to be where he used to be. 

Matt promised he would have her back. 

And now he’s left her with an empty hearth once again.

Matt and Nat.

(Now it’s just Nat.)


End file.
